When Shrimp Bait Hooks a Titan When Shrimp Bait Hooks a Titan "Hey, Mr. Narwhal—look that way..." Just as I was about to cast the bait again, Aioi stiffened. "No, not that way. Over on the far rim." "...Oh." I followed her line of sight. A prickle of cold crept down my back. There, hunched low on the opposite lip of the crater, was a Wild Xeno Beast—immense, motionless, watching. It looked almost humanoid at first glance, but the illusion didn’t hold for long. That matted fur, the oversized frame, and—most notably—the singular, glaring red eye told the real story. Definitely not a natural species. Definitely not friendly. Its silhouette rose nearly three meters tall, even from our distance. Massive. Predatory. Alien. We were staring at one of the worst-case scenarios: a roaming Void Titan. They were infamous out here. "So... got a strategy?" Aioi let her rod slip to the lunar dust, switching focus with a practiced hand as she reached for her plas...

Expert's Guide to Not Catching Void Shrimp Fresh from the Guild’s Training Camps, the new recruits are like space foam—barely formed, still drifting, and entirely unprepared for the harshness that lies beyond regulated space. First off, they're completely unsuitable for protection assignments. These are merely youngsters from the distant settlements, unpolished and inexperienced, without elder endorsements or meaningful connections to their names. Had they possessed ties to a planetary representative or respected craft master, perhaps they might secure a proper introduction—possibly even land employment worth its value in Stellar Credits. But the harsh truth remains: no one entrusts crucial assignments to anonymous newcomers. Gathering materials? A pointless endeavor for them. The productive worlds near commerce routes have already been depleted of their valuables. Any plant life or precious element worth exchanging has been collected down to the final fragment. If they're ...

When Crew Names Outshine The Galaxies When Crew Names Eclipse the Cosmos …I suppose it’s pointless to define them now, but just in case some lone wanderer is drifting through the void with their comms shattered, whispering to the stars, “Guild crews? Like those old military squadrons…?” Let me set the record straight. There are distinctions, after all. Crews are the lifeblood of the Guild’s structure—tight-knit (or occasionally sprawling) bands of guildmates united by common ambitions, complementary talents, or sometimes just the ability to endure one another’s eccentricities. Two people can register as a crew, or two dozen. Once formed, they unlock specialized missions and can even list their own contracts under the crew’s banner. Picture the ancient starfaring legends of Earth—commanders, navigators, mechanics, healers, all woven into a single unit. That’s the basic idea, though out here in the lawless fringes, things are rarely so neatly arranged. Crews in these sectors tend to be… ...

Kebab to the Stars: A Boar-ing Victory There’s a little corner of the station I return to whenever I need a taste of something real. The Mercenary Guild’s mess hall is efficient—close to the docks, stocked with ration packs and synth-meals—but it’s got all the charm of a med-bay waiting room. Bright lights, sterile tables, conversations clipped and transactional. They price the drinks just high enough to keep the place from turning into a lounge for idle freelancers. So when I want food with soul, I go elsewhere. A cramped, unassuming eatery tucked between cargo bays, its name stenciled in flickering neon: Gift of the Nebula. No flashy holoscreens, no gimmicks—just good food and the kind of dim lighting that forgives a long day’s weariness. Tonight, the place is packed. The usual murmur of scattered diners has swelled into a lively clamor—laughter, the clatter of plates, the hiss of meat searing over open flames. "Venusian boar Kebabs, hot off the grill!" I don’t need to be t...

Engineer Commander Havoc I turned the slender device over in my gloved hand, studying its smooth, glass-like surface. "So this is the latest invention? A data stylus?" I smirked. "Looks like a fancy glowstick to me." Zoro straightened, his pride unmistakable. "This, my friend, is Commander Havoc’s newest creation—a tool for the masses. The tip is made of specially grown crystal that reacts to energy pulses, letting you write or input commands just by touching it. The expensive versions use flawless, lab-grown crystal that responds instantly, but these? These are for the rest of us. Works just fine, even if it’s not top-tier. Don’t knock the depot’s hottest seller, Narwhal." "How generous of you, Zoro. Selling ‘affordable’ tools to the working spacer. But calling it a quantum stylus is pushing it when it’s not even made of the real premium stuff the actual quantum crystal" I’d come to the station’s supply depot for plasma coolant—the kind used to ...

Void Emperor Tera Havoc Void Emperor Tera Havoc “Uwhahahaha! Tremble before me, young cadets of Freyja Station! I am the Void Emperor Tera Havoc, sovereign of the cosmic abyss!” “Kyaa!” “Woaah!” Inside the station’s recreation dome, the children shrieked in delight, scattering like exploding meteor before the towering figure looming over them. His helmet was shaped like the fearsome head of a Space Hydra, its coiled tendrils framing a visor that glowed with an eerie light. Yes—it was I, Narwhal! Or rather, in this moment, the mighty Void Emperor Tera Havoc! None could stand against my reign! “Kishaaa!” “Kyaa! He’s too scary!” “Th-this!” “Uwhahaha! Pathetic! Your toy weapons are but sparks against the inferno of my power!” One particularly brave child lunged forward, swinging a training baton at the armored joints of my costume. “Ah! Clever! Striking where my armor is weakest! A fine tactic for a young spacer! But know this—the privilege of all great villains is crushing the tools of th...

Pests Extermination The journey had been, thankfully, smooth—no pirates lurking in trade routes, no creatures chewing on our ship’s shell, and no solar storms flinging us into chaos. Mr. Healer, who had looked like a ghost trapped in his own suit at the start, slowly came back to life with each cycle. By the time we reached the station, he was his oddball self again. Still, watching him eat was disturbing—sipping watery protein paste through jittery gloves, grinning crookedly behind his visor like a malfunctioning robot. Energetic or not, he made me want to shut off my external cameras. "Harvest cycles always bring such liveliness to these places..." Our destination, Freyja Station, hung far from anything familiar or convenient—an isolated agricultural outpost orbiting alone in deep space. It was so remote that even background radiation seemed to ignore it. Light-years from my home station of Baldr, Freyja was the sort of place you could scream into the cosmos and not even ge...

Old Ships, Older Jokes, and One Very Tired Doctor The Lunatran Empire stretches across the stars like a glittering web of farm worlds. Most of its planets are carefully shaped garden worlds, engineered to grow food on an unimaginable scale. These aren't just fields—they're towering hydroponic farms and protein factories that feed billions. Around them, delicate planetary rings and asteroid belts drift like quiet guardians. Running through it all is the Great Current—a shining river of star energy - solar wind that powers the empire. Yet even with all this plenty, some things stay rare. Heavy metals and exotic materials are hard to come by, though nobody complains when the harvest ships bring endless waves of grain from the orbital farms. Farming isn't just a job here—it's sacred. The empire's symbol says it all: a harvest ship wrapped in planetary rings. These massive farming vessels, flown by space-faring growers, are the backbone of Lunatran wealth. To be a space ...